


Sick Days at Amnesty Lodge

by hufflepirate



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Also the rest of the Amnesty Lodge crew in the background, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fever, Found Family, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 21:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflepirate/pseuds/hufflepirate
Summary: Joseph Stern gets sick at the Amnesty Lodge three times. Barclay helps every time. Joe gets better at asking for help andmuchbetter at accepting it.(Transitions from whumpy to fluffy, so if the early part's too whumpy for you, skipping ahead makes it less so.)





	1. Chapter 1: Before

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sick for 2 weeks and have been coping by vicariously cuddling Bigfoot, so if stuff isn't clear, that's why and also please do tell me. ^_^ Anyway, Griffin said Sternclay is real and I said 'eh' and posted without waiting.

Joseph woke up in the dark and rolled over to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand, only to have to clench his teeth against a wave of nausea sparked by the motion. Shit.

He breathed slowly through his nose until he felt like he could sit up. His ears rang as soon as he made it upright and he stopped again, focusing on his breathing until the ringing went away.

He made it to his feet, but it only took two steps for him to be sure he wasn't going to manage walking to his bathroom. He ran instead, bolting as fast as he could and making it to the toilet just in time before he threw up.

Once he'd emptied his stomach, he slid down to sit onto the tile, leaning against the side of the bathtub. He'd been too distracted by his stomach to notice, until now, that he was also sweaty and clammy, even in just his t-shirt and boxers.

He ran a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. Eight days. He'd managed _eight days _of investigation and now the whole thing was going to be derailed.

It occurred to him that he'd only barely mapped out the parts of the forest he'd wanted to look at, and he definitely couldn't do _that _tomorrow, anymore.

Then it occurred to him that he wasn't even sure he had any reliable contacts to talk to. As quaint as this little ski lodge was, no one in it seemed particularly to like him - they were polite, but it always took some time to break through the instinctive nervousness people felt when he showed them his badge, and that was even before the fact that they were possibly knowingly harboring criminals - but at least maybe reformed criminals? Probably reformed criminals. Ned seemed reformed. And rude.

Kirby had at least been helpful, unlike just about everyone else. But even though he was polite and invested, he always had that look, that little extra caution, that Joe knew from experience took at least a month to really break through with the hard-core cryptid hunter types. It was the suit, but of course, no one was going to believe his badge was real if he turned up in a sweatshirt and jeans.

At least Jake Coolice liked him. He was pretty sure Jake Coolice liked him. He was mildly suspicious of a kid that young having a position as important at the Lodge as he seemed to have, but maybe he just looked young for his age. Or maybe it was the whole skater-dude vibe.

He hoped Jake wouldn't try to take him to the doctor on a skateboard. That would be terrible.

It occurred to him, suddenly, that he didn't know if there were doctors here except for at the hospital, and a hospital seemed a little overboard for some nausea. A lot of nausea. _So much _nausea.

His next thought was that he wasn't sure how he was going to make it back to bed, feeling as clammy and sore and terrible as he did, which probably he should have thought about first.

Damn.

He glanced around the bathroom, but his towels had been replaced with clean ones since yesterday morning and the new ones were neatly folded up on a high shelf he couldn't reach from down here. His toiletries bag was stashed in the cabinet, since he'd decided to unpack so that he could feel settled in. He could make a pillow out of toilet paper, maybe, if he wanted to stay here on the floor, but that was, frankly, a bit too depressing to even contemplate.

So. Getting up. His only option. And if he was going to stand, then he might as well walk back to bed. Right? Right.

He clambered awkwardly to his feet, using the side of the tub, and then the seat of the toilet, and then the top of the counter to steady himself along the way. Then he stood still, breathing through a moment of faint dizziness. This was - not good.

He kept his grip on the countertop as he reached over to grab the beige plastic trash can from beside the sink, dumping the bag of dirty tissues and used floss inside it unceremoniously onto the floor. He'd almost moved the trash can over by the bed to throw tissues in when he thought all he had was allergies, but he'd decided against it. He definitely couldn't get by without it now.

He shuffled slowly back to bed, trying to remember when he'd last checked the emergency medical kit he always brought on field work. He certainly wasn't going to root through his closet for it to see what was inside _now_, but maybe in the morning?

He hadn't come up with an answer by the time he made it to the bed, and then sinking back onto it was such a relief, once he'd gotten over the jostling to his stomach, that he forgot all about checking the kit. He set the trash can on the floor just as slowly as he'd walked over here and then pulled his feet up into the bed.

_Oh._

Lying down was good.

Lying down was _very_ good.

He breathed slowly, closing his eyes to really take in how much better it felt to be lying down in a soft bed. It occurred vaguely to him that the sheets were so cool because they were damp, and that probably that was bad, but his whole body felt hot and the sheets were cold and the bed was soft and _oh_. Oh. He was sick. He should go to sleep. He should go to sleep, because he was definitely sick.

He ached. His stomach was sour. His head felt stuffed and useless. But he'd moved around and he'd thrown up and he'd collected a trash can, and none of the ways he felt bad were enough to overcome the exhaustion that flooded through him once his eyes were closed.

*****

When he woke up again, Joe didn't even bother rolling over to look at the clock. The light coming in the window was too bright for it to be earlier than about 10 or 11, and it could well be later. His throat felt like it was made of sandpaper, and his head throbbed, and his sheets no longer felt comfortingly cool.

When he tried to sit up, his stomach rebelled, but it was too empty after last night to actually turn over. He laid back down, slowly. This was - hmm. Regardless of what was in his emergency kit, he was definitely not going to have a good time getting up to get it.

He closed his eyes again. Maybe he shouldn't bother. Maybe he should just sleep. Maybe that would be better.

He adjusted carefully, sliding a little farther down the bed, back to where he'd been lying before he'd started to sit up. His stomach mostly behaved itself, but he realized with a wave of frustration that he had to go to the bathroom.

Of course he did.

It was morning.

He made himself sit up again.

It wasn't morning.

If Joseph Stern was anything, he was stubborn, and having decided to get up and go to the bathroom, he did it, forcing himself through the slow, unsteady, unpleasant motions he needed to get from the bed to the toilet and back.

As he sank back into the bed, he tried to wrap his head around the fact that it was 3 pm and that was a _very bad sign_.

He was not going to make it to his emergency bag. He was not going to make it to the front desk. He was not going to make it to any kind of medicine, or any kind of food, not that he much wanted any after having dry heaved twice on his way to the toilet and puked up a little acidic phlegm once he got there.

He closed his eyes. That was a lot. This was a lot. Lots of problems and lots of solutions, and all the solutions out of his reach.

He could think of something. He had to think of something. He _would _think of something.

******

He woke up again and it was dark.

Oh.

Oh dear.

This time, as he sat up, he did it slowly, and he was mostly alright. Mostly. Vaguely. Generally.

He looked out into the darkness, gazing wistfully at the closet where his emergency medical kit was definitely buried inside his full-scale backpacking trip backpack, which was definitely still inside his suitcase, where he'd put it to save space after he unpacked, and which was definitely not going to be accessible to him any time soon.

Not that some Pepto-Bismol and a couple of Tylenol were likely to fix him just now, anyway.

He'd left the light on in the bathroom as much out of necessity as out of preparedness, but the glow of the vanity lights, just visible through the door, did very little to make him feel any better about his situation.

He didn't really have to pee. Maybe a little, but not a lot. That was bad, too. He should have been drinking fluids. He hadn't even remembered to drink water or bring it over here. He should have done that. He should have done a lot of things.

For a moment, he debated forcing himself to the bathroom for some water and just going back to sleep, but after about 30 seconds of thinking about it still couldn't come up with any compelling reason that water would fix him enough to get to his medicine bag without also having a little medicine. And, as unappealing as it sounded, some food. He'd need to at least _try_ to eat if he was going to keep his strength up.

So that was it. He was out of options. He was going to have to ask for help, and hope he got some.

Taking as deep a breath as he could without putting pressure on his stomach, he reached for the courtesy phone next to his bed. It was old, all white plastic and clunky grey buttons, but it was at least new enough that the Lodge had been able to set speed-dial numbers, and it was at least easy enough to push the button labelled "front desk."

"Hello, Amnesty Lodge, how may I help you?"

Barclay answered, and Joseph allowed himself a brief moment of disappointment that it wasn't Jake. Then he swallowed his pride and did his best to talk loud enough to come across clearly. "Hi, Barclay, this is Agent Stern in 207? I'm - umm - sick. I need - help?"

He closed his eyes, upset with himself for not thinking this through better before he called.

"Oh no!" Barclay said on the other end of the line, "Yeah, you sound rough. What do you need?"

Joe tried to make his brain work. It didn't. He realized he'd been quiet for too long. "Help?" he said again, his voice coming out small. Then a better answer finally made it through his apparently slow brain. "Medicine. Prob'ly medicine."

"Yeah, I can come help you with that. What medicine do you need?" Barclay's voice sounded softer when he answered this time, and Joe squeezed his eyes shut even tighter.

Barclay thought he was a wuss. Or a child. Or both. A wussy child.

He forgot to answer, and then Barclay was talking again. "Stern? Are you still with me, buddy? What _kind _of sick are you? What's wrong?"

"Threw up," Joe answered, determined to answer before Barclay could talk again, even if answering was hard. "And I can't get my stuff because it's in a bag in a bag and the closet is far."

He realized that wasn't really true and corrected himself, "I mean, the closet's not further than the bathroom, obviously, it's just suitcases and moving stuff and also I can't bend over."

"You have medicine in your room?"

"Gotta be prepared. Always prepared. Boy scouts'n shit. Shit! Not 'shit.' Everything."

Barclay was quiet for a moment and Joe felt like kicking himself again. Then he asked, "You mean Boy Scouts and everything?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, makes sense," there was something warm in Barclay's voice that almost made him feel better in spite of . . . everything. "You did already say that," the man continued, "When Aubrey was talking about the bedbugs. I've told you we don't have bedbugs, right? Anyway, I'm gonna grab some stuff from down here and I'll be up as soon as somebody comes by who can watch the desk for a little bit. You ok to wait that long?"

"Yeah," he agreed, feeling mildly defeated. All that psyching himself up to call for help, and now he was waiting anyway.

Barclay paused, but didn't hang up. "Hey, man," he said again, soft as anything and Joe felt small again, "Sorry I can't do better. But Aubrey and Dani should be back any minute. They usually come home for Shark Tank. I'm still not sure how Jake got us all onto that, but - anyway, either they'll come back or Jake'll come down and I'll be right there. But tell me or call me back if it's an emergency and I'll leave the desk anyway, alright?"

"Yeah," Joe said. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Alright," Barclay agreed, "I'll see you in a bit."

"Uh-huh."

Barclay hung up.

Joseph felt silly. He couldn't quite work out why, but he knew he felt it.

God, he was tired.

He realized he should have told Barclay to unlock the door and let himself in if he didn't answer, or maybe even if he did. But telling him now would mean calling again and that seemed like a lot. Maybe he'd work it out himself. That would be nice. He hoped Barclay could work that out.

*****

Joe woke up next to a glass of water, a box of crackers, and several packets of medicine that were clearly out of some kind of travel pack. The bedside lamp was on now, on its dimmest of several settings, and as he sat up slowly, he noticed a note on top of the crackers.

_I thought it was better not to wake you up. Call the front desk if you need anything else. I'll drop by with some toast or something in the morning. Phone down about that, too, if you want something else. —Barclay_

Ah. Yup. That made sense. Of course Barclay wasn't going to just come take care of him. He was nice, or at least polite, but he only worked here. They weren't friends. No one in this town was his friend.

He reached for the water first, realizing he was thirsty only as he started drinking it. Then his thirst outweighed his common sense, and he chugged the whole glass, so fast that his stomach rebelled against the sudden fullness and he found himself scrambling to his feet to go - somewhere. Anywhere. He almost tripped over the trash can beside the bed, knocking it on its side, and crumpled down onto the floor, getting the trash can into his hands and turned upright just in time to throw the water back up into it.

He sneezed and coughed and shook, everything going not quite right since he didn't even have any food in his stomach to be puking, and then he found himself able to catch his breath and put the trash can down, rearranging into a more comfortable position on the floor and leaning against the side of the bed in defeat.

_Get up_, his brain said_, Get up and dump out the trash can. And then get more water. Slowly, this time._

His body didn't move.

It didn't move.

It didn't move.

He wasn't about to brave crackers when he couldn't manage water, and he wasn't going to take pills without water, and he needed to either get water or - or - _fuck_. He set the trash can down just at the edge of his reach and laid back down, curling up on his side on the floor. The floor was not supposed to feel this good. But it was firm and steadying and not damp, and maybe he could lie here for a moment before he got up to get water and make choices.

His body was so heavy.

The ground was so solid.

His eyes were so heavy.

He fell asleep.

*****

"Oh _shit_, dude!" the voice woke Joseph, but he couldn't work out who it was until Jake Coolice moved forward disorientingly quickly, depositing something onto the empty bed in the room and then rushing toward him.

Joe was on the floor. That was a weird place to be. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, looking up and watching Jake slide across the corner of the opposite bed like he was trying to hood-slide across the comforter. "Hi," he said raggedly.

"Ok," Jake said, "So Barclay wasn't kidding. You look gnarly. Let's just get you back into bed, huh?"

Joe forced himself the rest of the way up to a seated position. "Yeah," he said, breathing carefully, "Yeah, gimme a minute."

Jake looked fidgety, even waiting what _must _have been only a few seconds (right?) before Joe could move again to try to get to his feet.

Jake was there in an instant, closing the gap between them and supporting him by the elbow as he clambered up and then collapsed onto the bed again.

"Shit." Jake said, "Ok. _Shit_. I'm gonna call Barclay. He's way better at this than me. You just - sit tight. Or lay down, if you want? But like... in the bed, yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe agreed weakly.

"No, _in_ the bed," Jake said, shoving gently at his shoulders until he fell over onto his side and Jake could pull his legs up onto the mattress.

Then he picked the phone up and pushed a series of numbers, not just the speed dial for the front desk. "Hey, Barc," he said after a few seconds of listening to it ring, "He's uh - he's definitely not gonna be able to eat toast. I know you're already working on that soup, but like - maybe you should just come up here, bro. He's, uh - it's real bad."

"M'ok," Joseph muttered, the protest flopping uselessly even in his own ears.

Jake rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. Big tough FBI guy or whatever. You can still get _sick_. You're cool anyway. Or like... for a fed." He said the last part without malice, like all of it was one big joke together, and Joe smiled through a sniffle.

"I don't feel good," he admitted.

Jake laughed out loud, "Yeah, bro, figured that one out. You prolly shoulda gone to the doctor like - _yesterday_."

"Prolly," he slurred back.

Barclay came in the door faster than he'd expected, though he supposed that was just because time seemed to be doing weird things around him, just now. He looked worried, and he didn't stop on his way to Joe's bedside.

"_Fuck_, Jake."

"Yeah, I told you."

"Yeah. Alright." Barclay looked quickly around himself, taking in the untouched medicine and crackers, the sloshy trash can, and Joe's face, his gaze lingering on his eyes for long enough that Joe started blushing. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and sat down on the edge of the bed across the way. "Jake, can you go man the desk? And turn the burner off on the stove. Turn everything off on the stove. Dani can order pizza, but tell her not to let Aubrey pick the toppings this time."

"Hey, man, bacon spinach mushroom pineapple anchovy pizza was _lit_." 

Barclay grunted, but whatever he might have said in response was replaced with another grunt, this time surprised. He picked the trash can up in one quick, smooth motion, and held it under Joe's chin just as the thought of pizza proved he could, in fact, continue to throw up and he had, in fact, still had a little water left in his stomach.

"Rad reflexes, Barc," Jake said, "See, I told you he was better at this than me. Mama and I both got the flu real bad last year and-"

Barclay interrupted. "Jake, I need somebody on the desk. We're gonna have to be more on top of that while Mama's out of town, and Agent Stern here needs a hospital."

Joe leaned away from the trash can. "Nnnn. Jus' a doctor. 'M only throwing up."

The look Barclay leveled on him was somehow both weary and _terrifying _at the same time, and a shiver ran down his spine. He looked away. "Hospital's fine," he muttered, barely audible.

"The hospital's gonna take good care of you," Barclay said, momentary _something _gone. He wasn't scary. He was polite and apparently also _actually_ kind and he had nice eyes, probably, unless that was just Joe's fever getting the best of him.

Jake patted Joe on the shoulder. "Yeah, I gotta go, bro, but I'll board over to see you later, if you have to stay there, kay?"

Joe almost cried, struck hard and fast by a wave of affection for the boy. He sniffled, and hoped the illness covered it up. "Ok," he said.

Then Jake was gone, as fast as always, sliding across the corner of Barclay's bed again like the motion was habitual.

"Take the toast!" Barclay shouted after him. "Don't want you getting bugs in here before we get you back."

"Yeah!"

Jake's feet were loud, and he slammed the door, and they were quieter once they were muffled, and then he was gone.

"Can you sit up for a little bit, or is that hard for you right now?" Barclay's voice was gentle, but it was just _just _on the edge of patronizing, not there, but adjacent, and something inside Joseph sparked, stubborn and gritty. He was a grownup. He wasn't just going to lie here and whimper.

"Yeah," he said, forcing himself slowly up again and twisting to put his feet on the floor because it seemed steadiest.

Barclay leaned forward, putting a hand gently under his chin and looking intently into his eyes. Joe found himself blushing again.

"Your eyes are glassy," Barclay said. Then he released his grip on Joe's chin and laid his hand on his forehead instead. He whistled. "_Jesus_, Stern. They're gonna be actively mad at me when I take you in 'cause I didn't until the fever was this high."

"Couldn't get to the Tylenol," he answered, "S'in my bag." He tried to point at the closet, but his tired, useless, treacherous arm just kind of flopped in its general direction and he glared at the closet instead.

"Yeah, well, we're a little past that," Barclay said, his voice soft and mild like he didn't even _understand _how _infuriating _Joe's arm was being.

Barclay moved again, getting off the opposite bed and squatting down slightly in front of him, closer, close enough that Joe could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him, unless that was just his own fever. Barclay ran his hands gently over Joe's neck, feeling his lymph nodes and then taking his pulse.

"D'you used to be a doctor?" he asked, the thought occurring to him only as it fell out of his mouth.

Barclay smiled just a little bit, a small quirk of his lips Joe might have seen before, if he'd ever been this close to Barclay's face, but hadn't. "I've done a lot of camping over the years. Got certified as an EMT, actually. Figured if I was gonna be the only one out there, or the strongest hiker, or both, I oughta know what I was doing."

"Always prepared," Joe said weakly.

That little half smile was back. "And everything."

"An' everything."

Barclay cleared his throat. "Alright. You gonna be ok with it if I carry you down to the truck? I don't really trust you on the stairs just now, and the elevator guy's not gonna be down to look for what's making that noise until Thursday."

It occurred vaguely to Joe that he had no idea how far away Thursday was. That was a problem.

Barclay put a hand on his shoulder. It wrapped farther around than he'd expected. Why hadn't he noticed how big Barclay's hands were until now?

"Stern? You ok? You alright with me picking you up?"

Oh! That! Questions! Joe nodded. "Yeah." He didn't know what else to say, but apparently he didn't need to, because all of a sudden Barclay was scooping him up with the same smooth, confident motion he'd used with the trash can.

Joe leaned into Barclay's chest, his hands scrabbling instinctively around the front of Barclay's soft flannel shirt for something to grab ahold of until he realized what he was doing, with a blush.

Barclay hiked him up higher in his arms. "Arm around my shoulders," he said, "It'll help you feel more stable."

He was right. Joe clung desperately to Barclay's shoulder with his right arm as they started moving, trying to keep his bearings as the world swung around him.

He realized his breathing had sped up when Barclay said, "It's alright, I've got you. Nothin' to worry about."

Joe nodded, closing his eyes against the nodding and the dizziness and the world moving past him while he did not walk, but just clung to Barclay.

"Feels weird. Things moving," he said.

"Alright, well, you just keep your eyes closed, then. It's alright. I'll just get you to the doctor and it'll be alright."

As he nodded again, he found himself turning it into something else, nestling his head into the space between Barclay's neck and shoulder, where it was comfortable.

He should feel awkward about it. He knew he should feel awkward. He didn't. He felt tired. Then he didn't feel anything.

*****

He woke up in the front seat of an old truck with cracked leather seats and sun damage on the dashboard.

He was leaning heavily against something warm.

Barclay cleared his throat.

The thing he was leaning on was Barclay.

He straightened up too fast, and his head spun and then his stomach threatened to puke again and he froze, eyes wide and staring and taking in nothing as he focused on making short, careful breaths.

"There's a puke bag in the glove box," Barclay said, "I left it open so you could reach if you needed it. Friend of ours used to get motion sickness a lot."

He reached blindly for the plastic bag, but by the time he had it, his head had stopped spinning and his stomach was behaving better and he didn't need it. He held it anyway. He sat up straight, like that was going to fix the jostling of the truck driving over country roads.

It wouldn't. But maybe it would keep him from embarrassing himself with Barclay again.

At the parking lot outside the ER, Barclay didn't pick him back up again. He just helped him out of the truck, doing most of the lifting while Joe clung unprofessionally again, and then walked slowly with his arm around Joe's waist, and Joe's around his shoulder.

It should have occurred to him before that Barclay was very strong. It hadn't. But even with his feet on the ground and some of his weight on his feet, it felt like Barclay was at least 3/4 carrying him anyway, and it occurred to him that Barclay didn't look weak, but he hadn't expected him to be this strong, either.

*****

The ER was surprisingly quiet, until Barclay explained that it was 9:30 am on a Tuesday, and then it was a little less-surprisingly quiet.

His eyes crossed when he tried to focus on the intake paperwork, but his brain was working well enough to dictate to Barclay, blushing the whole time in embarrassment.

The waiting room was cold and the chairs were uncomfortable, and the warmth of Barclay in the seat next to him was the only thing that made it bearable and Barclay didn't even _like _him, he was just _nice, _and Joe almost cried again.

Barclay noticed this time, patting his knee gently. "I know this is frustrating. But they'll get you taken care of and then you'll be able to fill out paperwork to your heart's content. Which I assume's not doing paperwork at all, but you know what I mean."

Joe's brain shrieked 'no' at his body as it flopped over, his head landing on Barclay's warm, soft shoulder. It did it anyway. "Yeah," he managed.

Barclay didn't say anything. He didn't shrug him off, either.

*****

The nurses did a lot and Joe followed little of it, and then the doctor came and looked and did a little and Joe followed even less of that, and Barclay came in from the waiting room and then sat in the corner, nodding seriously and speaking in a serious voice and being - serious. Important. In charge.

Joe had an IV in his arm. It made him feel cold, but stronger. He was supposed to keep his arm straight. He didn't want to keep his arm straight. He wanted to curl up into a little ball to keep warm.

As soon as all the nurses and doctor left, he fidgeted, rearranging in little bits as if it was going to fix the problem.

Barclay asked if he was alright, but by the time he asked, he was already draping a blanket carefully over him, and Joe just grabbed at the edge of the blanket in response, scrambling for the words.

It took too long to manage, "I am now."

Barclay seemed to mean it when he said, "Good."

*****

He wasn't in the ER when he woke up. He was in a different part of the hospital. Jake Coolice was sitting in a chair next to him playing something on a genuinely ancient Gameboy Color Aubrey had bought him on ebay because it didn't connect to wifi for anything and the dead zone around the telescope couldn't interfere.

He looked up when Joe stirred, and smiled.

"Hey, bro! The docs say you're gonna need IV fluids and shit for a while 'cause you kind of got yourself fucked over not doing anything about the virus, but then you're gonna be chill. No big worries."

The blanket from the ER was gone. This one was different. Thicker. He was a little disappointed and decided not to think about why.

"Barclay had to go back home," Jake continued, "But I think he might drop by tonight, after dinner and all. And Dani might come."

Joe tried to talk and immediately discovered that water in his veins was not at all the same as water in his mouth. What came out was a raspy, pained sound, and Jake leapt up to his feet. "Oh, sorry, dude! Lemme go find a nurse to get you some water. They prolly wanna know you're awake anyway."

Joe tried again before Jake could bolt, forcing out the words, "I didn't think Dani liked me."

Jake turned around in the doorway. "I mean nobody _doesn't _like you. But like... yeah, I think she feels guilty 'cause Aubrey's always being so mean."

Joe wasn't sure how to answer that. It was reassuring, in a way, because it seemed to fit, but he'd also been hoping - no. That was silly. 8 days. It had been 8 days. Or however many it had been now. 10? 11? You didn't make friends in 8-11 days. Not really. Not even if you really wanted to, just about now.

"Be right back!" Jake half-shouted, bolting out the door too fast for a hospital. He came back with water and an extra pillow and a nurse, who checked on Joe and propped his bed up when he wanted to sit and left them alone again.

Jake caught him up on all the sick stunts he'd done in the last few days, and all the tricks he'd almost managed to teach Dr. Harris Bonkers, and everything Barclay and Dani and Moira and Aubrey had been up to, and Joe tried to feel like he belonged, even though he knew he didn't.

After the nurse brought him some pills to swallow and some jello to eat, she sent Jake away to let him sleep. It was almost a relief.

*****

When he woke up in the middle of the night, he heard snoring.

He rolled over to see that it was Barclay, sprawled in the same uncomfortable-looking chair where Jake had curled up with the Gameboy. He was fast asleep, his head tilted back over the back of the chair and resting against the wall.

Joe closed his eyes again, feeling warm even though he knew he shouldn't.

*****

When he was discharged, Barclay took him home and ordered him _very seriously _to call the front desk if he needed anything.

He felt equal parts relief and disappointment as he climbed up the stairs to his room on his own, without any help.

The trash can was back where it belonged, in the bathroom. The packets of medicine were gone. The box of crackers was still there. So was the note. He tucked it into the drawer of the nightstand, and tried to pretend he wasn't being sentimental.


	2. Chapter 2: Between

Coughing was one thing. A manageable thing. A thing he could deal with by drinking some extra tea and taking some allergy medicine and raiding his emergency kit for the kind of heavy-duty cold meds that would knock him out so he could sleep.

Coughing until he was suddenly lightheaded was something else.

Joe wrapped his hands around the edges of the office chair Barclay had helped him move up here to work more comfortably at the little table in the room. It was grounding, and he got control of himself again.

Huh.

He tried a slow, deep breath, and it went ok. He tried another.

He coughed again when his body seemed to take the deep breathing as a cue and yawned.

Then he coughed harder.

Then he found himself gagging, barely keeping himself from retching through sheer force of will.

Nope. That was a nope.

He breathed shallowly and carefully through his nose.

Bathroom. He should go to the bathroom. If he was even maybe going to throw up, he should go to the bathroom. And then he could deal with the rest once he knew whether he was going to or not.

He scooted the chair to the bathroom with his feet, reaching his hands out to push off the beds and steer himself a little better. He was fine.

He stood up and walked to the toilet.

He started coughing again. It was a normal cough. A cough like the ones he'd been coughing all week. A probably-just-allergies cough.

He relieved himself so that he wouldn't feel so silly about having come in here, then zipped his pants back and stepped over the sink to wash his hands.

Another cough caught funny, opening up into a string of them he couldn't control, one that left him clinging to the countertop, gasping for breath. He gagged again. Retched. Threw up into the sink. Coughed to clear the remnants from his throat. Narrowly avoided gagging against the smell, again by foce of will. Breathed through his nose. Breathed through his nose. Turned on the water to start rinsing out the sink.

This was - a problem.

He looked down at his hands. He hadn't gotten puke on them. But he hadn't actually washed them yet, either. No chair, then. Probably. He was probably contagious. Maybe.

He washed his hands, holding his body carefully still and focusing his full effort on breathing, his hands moving on autopilot between soap, water, and towel.

Sinking back into his office chair was a relief purely because it felt _safer_.

But then his breathing kept being mostly ok, and he could think again. This was not allergies. This was something real. Maybe the flu? It was definitely still flu season. It hadn't seemed to be going around the Lodge, but that didn't mean he couldn't have picked it up in town. Kirby had been sniffling a little at lunch a few days ago.

So, maybe the flu.

He could just ride out the flu.

He did _not _relish the thought of riding out the flu.

So the doctor then. They wouldn't be able to fix it, if it had gotten past his flu vaccine, but they could give him something to help it pass faster.

He'd need supplies. Canned soup. Jello. Tea. Maybe some ice cream.

No. He didn't have anywhere to put ice cream. He didn't have anywhere to put jello or canned soup.

He rolled the chair back over to the desk and then looked out on his room, surveying the space. It was the same as it had always been. Two beds, nightstands, desk, chair, ottoman, lamp. No good food storage.

He'd practically curled up in a ball here to die, last time he got sick. He wasn't going to do that again.

He rolled over to the phone on the bedside table and debated with himself only for a moment before dialing Barclay's full number, the extension for the kitchen that wasn't in the speed dial.

Barclay answered after 3 rings. "Hello?"

"Hi," he said, "This is Joe. Joseph. Stern."

Barclay laughed. "I know who you are, Joe. Why are you bein' weird out of nowhere?"

"I think I need a ride to a doctor. Not the hospital. Just a regular doctor. I just got lightheaded when I was coughing, and I think I shouldn't drive."

Yes. Good. A good, solid, believable excuse for asking Barclay for help this time, instead of toughing it out.

"I'm sorry to hear you're feeling worse," Barclay said, "I know you were hoping it was just allergies." Joe could practically _see _the wrinkle between his eyes, just listening to the tone of his voice.

"Yeah, apparently not." He suddenly found himself coughing again and held the phone out to the side to avoid deafening Barclay, tucking his face into his other elbow at the same time, to muffle the sound.

"Moira's already at the desk," Barclay said. "I've got a couple things going, but mostly prep. Give me 5 to get things squared away enough that Dani can look after the rest, and I'll be right there. You gonna need help with the stairs, or are you only lightheaded when you're coughing?"

Both. Neither. Joe didn't know. But then he thought about Barclay's arm around him, supporting him on the stairs, nearly lifting him down them with that surprising strength he had, and he did know. "Yeah," he said, "If you don't mind. It's better safe than sorry."

Barclay chuckled. "I do not mind. You got anything you wanna pack up for the doctor, Mr. Boy Scout?"

"I do _not _overpack!" he protested, bursting into another coughing fit when his indignation got the best of his common sense.

Barclay made a sympathetic noise over the fun. "Sorry, Joe. I shouldn't tease."

Joe caught his breath and for once appreciated the low roughness to his voice, "You just wait 'til the next time we go camping. You're gonna need something I've packed."

It wasn't really a threat. It wasn't really anything. It might just be wishful thinking. But it was almost like a threat, and he appreciated his voice for rasping and deepening and making it sound like a threat.

Joe could _hear _the smile on Barclay's _stupid, smug face_ when he said, "Guess we'll have to get you to the doctor so we can find out, huh?"

Joe's brain was spinning now. Had he just won or lost? Was Barclay really agreeing to go camping with him again, and not just in a 'hey, who knows this part of the woods I need to check out' kind of way? Or was he just being sick and ridiculous and pitiable and _pitied_?

He didn't pack a bag. He didn't grab a thing to read in the waiting room. He didn't grab a sweatshirt in case it was cold. He didn't grab a barf bag for the car. His insurance card was already in his wallet, and so was his driver's license, and that was good enough. He didn't even need his badge, really. He didn't need anything. He was going to be fine. It was going to be fine.

He sat still and waited and it felt like forever before Barclay was knocking at his door and grabbing his elbow as soon as he'd opened it and feeling his forehead and looking into his eyes, and he wasn't sure if this was all overwhelming because it was overwhelming or because he'd been sitting still and waiting for it.

Inspection complete, Barclay let go of his elbow and turned to wrap one arm around his waist instead. "Yup," he said, "You're definitely sick. Let's get you down the stairs, and then I'll get you to the doctor's. Moira called the doc Mama goes to and she's got a walk-in available."

Joe was glad they hadn't started walking yet. He might almost have tumbled down the stairs, even with Barclay's arm around him. "You can get a _walk-in appointment _at a _regular doctor _here?"

Barclay laughed. "Sure can, city boy."

"Am I a city boy or a boy scout?" Joe asked grumpily as they started walking together toward the stairs.

"Charmingly, both."

Joe felt as much as saw Barclay's ears going red, as he blushed just a littl.

He felt like that must mean something, but then they got to the stairs, and that was a lot to navigate with Barclay still pressed up against his side, supporting him with an arm around his waist, and he forgot about it.

******

"Ok," Barclay said cheerfully, fiddling with the master keys in spite of the fact that Joe was right here, still tucked into his side and with his own key to his room, but the trip to the doctor had been more exhausting than anticipated, and Joe let it happen, just leaning into Barclay's side more than he maybe should allow himself and waiting for Barclay to finish sorting through his keys.

"Got it!" Barclay unlocked the door and opened it as far as it went so that the two of them could maneuver through it together.

"Chair or chair or bed?" he asked, and for a moment, Joe's brain ran away with him in twelve half-directions at once and ended up nowhere.

Barclay's voice softened. "Where do you want to _sit_, Joe?"

"Bed," he answered, "When the doc said that cough suppressant was gonna make me drowsy, she wasn't kidding."

"Mmm," Barclay hummed in acknowledgement, helping him over to the bed and then easing him down onto it.

Joe suddenly felt like he needed to not be sitting right there right then, and he pushed himself backward into the center of the bed and tucked his feet up in front of him, even though he usually slept on the left-hand side, beside the bedside table.

Barclay seemed not to notice. "Alright, so I've already said there'll be soup with dinner, but I've got to run to the store for a couple of things. I'll drop by the Redbox for something to watch when you're awake again. Anything you've been wanting to see? Tea we don't have already? Favorite fruits for smoothies?"

His head spun again, but he'd caught most of it. "No movies with bad FBI agents or bad cryptid lore. Just any actually good-tasting herbal stuff, I guess? Or wait! No! Chai. Or cinnamon. Or whatever. Spicy. Uhh... bananas. Blueberries? Definitely bananas."

Barclay laughed. "All very doable! Flu's supposed to be pretty bad in general this year, so you could be stuck in front of the tv for a while. I'll just grab a couple of things that sound good and don't have fake FBI in them."

"Sounds good," Joe managed, feeling a little overwhelmed.

Barclay reached forward suddenly, placing a hand on his forehead. "I think you're cooling off a little," he announced, blushing around his ears again. "I'll see you in a bit. Just... get some sleep while you're all drugged up for it. I'll be back this evening."

Joe wondered where Barclay had gotten this level of energy. Usually that was more Jake's thing. Or Aubrey's. But the medicine fog was only getting foggier the longer he sat here, and it was increasingly clear that all of that was a problem for later.

He wriggled from sitting to lying down, and then rolled onto his side, snuggling down into the pillows on his usual side of the bed.

He fell asleep before he'd even worked out which things he ought to try to figure out.

*****

Barclay woke him up coming in with a tray of soup and a bag of something over his arm.

Joe sat up in the dark, gazing blearily at the open door, where Barclay had made no attempt to be quiet, only to see the man stop short, abruptly.

"Oh! Sorry, I thought you'd be up by now." Barclay grimaced. "Well. I at least thought you'd be hungry."

Joe wrinkled his forehead, concentrating for a moment.

"Yeah," he answered, "I am."

Barclay looked relieved.

"Can you turn the lights on?" Joe asked, "While you're over there?"

He did, shifting the tray expertly onto one hand and flicking the switches with the other to light up the entryway and the light in the center of the ceiling. Then he closed the door with his foot, came over with the tray, and set it directly in Joe's lap. As he bent down to turn the bedside lamp on, too, Joe almost imagined he could smell that clean, pleasant, how-does-a-person-smell-like-mountain-air smell that always meant he was as close to Barclay as he wanted to be. They were probably too close, then. He thanked him, blushing, and looked down at his soup.

"No problem!" Barclay sat down on the opposite bed and started pulling things out of the bag. "So I got this Christmas Cookie tea with, like, cinnamon and sugar and stuff, but I'm a little skeptical of it, so there's also a box of Chai and a box of somebody else's that's just labelled Cinnamon. Obviously, you're not gonna be able to make smoothies here, but if you want something cold for your throat instead, the kitchen's stocked."

He looked over from his bag of stuff and smiled at Joe, and Joe felt his heart flutter in his chest in a way that had nothing at all to do with being sick.

Barclay met his eyes and for a moment, Joe almost thought he was blushing, but of course, that was silly. He must still be loopy from the meds he'd taken at the doctor's.

"I picked up your meds," Barclay continued, "So you can take those whenever. And then I went to the Redbox, but I realized I don't actually know your taste in movies yet, which is a shame. We should start doing a Lodge movie night instead of all just clustering around Jake's BMX stuff and whatever Dani and Aubrey are into at any given time. Might actually get Moira interested, too, beyond just that thing she does where she likes other people to be happy."

"Uh huh," Joe said, as much to show he was listening as anything.

Barclay rubbed the back of his neck, looking down, and Joe decided he probably _was _blushing, which was interesting for reasons his brain couldn't quite catch. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I kinda just cleaned 'em out of anything that seemed like it wouldn't be terrible. Or like it'd be the right kind of terrible. Got the new _Mission: Impossible _and the new _Predator_, and one of the horror movies, which hopefully is alright. Kinda hard to know, but I tried to pick the best one."

"There's, uh, I think this one's about fighting Nazis or something, but probably no FBI. Hopefully. Denzel Washington's always good, so I got that, and Kiera Knightley. I don't know what hers is about, but I figured, you know, maybe you like period dramas, which it probably is, because it's got her face on it. This one's supposed to be funny? And, uh - dunno if you _want _to watch kids movies, you being all serious and suits and all, but, uh -" He held up a disc. "This one's _Smallfoot_, which I couldn't resist, given, ah, everything."

Joe groaned. "I thought you guys were done making fun of me for trying to find Bigfoot."

"Yeah, but-" Barclay waved the disc, "_Smallfoot_! Anyway, it could be cute and Yetis aren't even Bigfoot, so even _they_ think the title's a joke, probably."

Joe laughed, and found that it turned into a cough in spite of the meds, which was just not fair.

Barclay leapt up and rubbed his back, and it felt almost nice enough to make it worth coughing to begin with.

Once he could catch his breath, he leaned back against the headboard of the bed. "Alright," he said, "Well, with that intro, I guess we've gotta watch _Smallfoot _first. Or-" he found himself blushing, "I do? Are you, uh, are you staying?"

Barclay shrugged. "Nowhere else to be. Unless you don't want me to-"

"Please stay!" Joe said, too fast. He didn't have a good reason or an excuse and he hadn't thought this through and _oh God, what was he doing_, but Barclay just smiled and didn't ask.

"Yeah, alright. I will admit to a certain amount of curiosity about how the Yeti are being portrayed to today's youth."

Joe managed to keep his laughter to a single, manageable snort. "Yeah. Sure."

Barclay laughed. "Shut up, you, you're hunting Bigfoot."

"_You're _hunting Bigfoot," Joe shot back, half on instinct.

"I am rubber, you are glue," Barclay chanted playfully, and Joe wished he was close enough to shove. He wasn't so he made do with throwing a cracker at him. It bounced off Barclay's shoulder and landed next to him on the bed. He picked it up and ate it, smirking a little, but there was something warm in his eyes and Joe felt his heart do that fluttering thing again.

"Alright," Barclay said, gentler this time, "I'll put the movie in. You want any tea or anything first?"

"No," Joe said, averting his eyes again, "I'm good with the soup. Thanks for this, by the way." He was looking at the soup, but he meant all of it, and he hoped Barclay knew it.

*****

"How come you've got 8 movies and every time I check on you, you're watching _Andy Griffith_?"

Joe looked up at Barclay, who was just coming in with a hot cup of tea and a hoodie thrown over his shoulder. Joe was pretty sure Barclay had seen through 'hoodies work better than blankets when I'm sitting up,' and _definitely _sure he'd seen through 'none of my sweatshirts have hoods and my ears keep getting cold,' but he hadn't called him out on it, and Joe still felt just bad enough to convince himself that being wrapped in something that smelled vaguely of Barclay was _medicinal_ and _not_ a dangerous indication that he was pining over the chef.

He shrugged as Barclay came all the way into the room. "_Andy Griffith _is comforting."

Barclay set the tea on the nightstand and handed him the hoodie. "Try not to spill anything on this one, yeah?"

Joe pulled the hoodie on over his head, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell and trying not to think about how much he loved the way it swamped him. It was a little big on Barclay, because what was the point of being cosy otherwise, and it was _huge _on Joe.

Barclay sat on the other bed without asking, slipping his shoes off and then rearranging to sit against the headboard with his arm behind his head and watch the TV. "So what's going on?"

"Aunt Bee's pickles are _terrible_, so Andy swapped them out with store-bought ones so he wouldn't have to eat them, and now she's entering them into the county fair without knowing."

"Mmm," Barclay hummed, "Sounds like trouble."

"You got it."

It wasn't, really. It was trouble like they had around here when somebody had been sneaking Dr. Harris Bonkers some extra carrots and Aubrey wanted to know who, or when Duck Newton had already bought Mama a birthday present and was trying to keep it secret even though he couldn't lie to save his life. That was comforting, too, and he tried not to think too hard about why.

*****

"Are you sure you're feeling better?" Barclay asked, hovering a little around him.

"I'm fine," Joe said, "Barely coughing at all. And I probably haven't been contagious for a couple of days, anyway."

"But you'll move to one of the chairs instead of a barstool if you need to?"

"Who's being a Boy Scout now? I don't need you to help me across the street. I'm definitely mostly better."

Barclay grunted, letting the dig slide off him. "You'd better be."

Joe didn't ask 'Or what?' He didn't even ask if Barclay was disappointed not to have an excuse to spend so much time together, anymore. He just asked, "How much did all those Redbox days cost, anyway? I can pay you back."

Barclay shrugged. "S'alright. I got to watch 'em, too. Eventually. When _Andy Griffith_ wasn't on."

Joe felt fond and said nothing. He took a bite of his sandwich to camouflage the fact that he had no idea how to answer that without sounding like a sap.


	3. Chapter 3: After

Barclay shifted under him, and Joe groaned.

His boyfriend's laugh jostled him, which wasn't ideal, given his whole dizziness situation, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. "It's just for a minute. I've gotta pee."

Joe grunted, only half in agreement, and scooted off of Barclay's chest to let him up.

He'd knocked on Barclay's door at 2 am two nights ago, desperate and terrified and spinning with unexpected vertigo, which was _not _part of probably-allergies and _definitely _meant something was wrong.

Somehow, he'd ended up in Barclay's room even after their half-panicked trip to the ER and his diagnosis with an inner ear infection that was going to be messing with his balance for the foreseeable future.

He snuggled down into the pillow in Barclay's absence, digging his face in to smell it. He was on two different drugs to halt the dizziness, and both made him drowsy. He didn't have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

Barclay finished washing his hands and came over to feel Joe's forehead, run a hand over his hair, and bend down to kiss his temple. "Actually, I lied. I also gotta check on things downstairs. Just to make sure Leo's settling in alright in the kitchen. I actually think having that stupid Winnebago parked outside is bringing in more tourists?"

Joe groaned again, rolling over and grabbing for Barclay until he could snag his sleeve.

"Use your words, Stern," Barclay teased.

"No," he answered, feeling clever because it was both an answer and a refusal.

Barclay gently pried his fingers out of his sleeve and laid it down on the bed, holding his hand down for long enough to kiss his temple again and then dodging, too fast, out of the way before Joe could grab him again.

"Not fair," Joe muttered.

"Not fair that I have a job that makes me actually, you know, _work_?"

"_I_ work."

"You're looking for Bigfoot."

"I found you, didn't I?"

"I can't believe the _FBI _is paying you to go on hiking trips and bum around the Lodge."

"_You're _a bum."

"God, you really are sick, huh? I _really_ won't be long, I promise."

Joe groaned again, and Barclay laughed on his way out the door.

*****

Joe woke up with no idea how long Barclay had actually been gone, which seemed unfair of the universe, frankly.

Not that he minded waking up to the warm weight of Barclay climbing into bed and pulling him gently into his arms.

He went willingly, snuggling his face into the soft flannel of Barclay's shirt and breathing in the smell of him for a moment. Then he slid his hand down Barclay's arm, feeling for his bracelet. He'd try to look, but he was dizzy and could barely keep his eyes open regardless.

"What'cha doin', bud?"

"Fuzzy," he answered sleepily.

Barclay laughed beside his ear, a sound as warm as he was. "Only for you, babe. There better not be an emergency outside."

"You c'n put it back on."

Barclay slipped his bracelet off and instantly grew underneath Joe's chest, swelling bigger and getting softer, and Joe wrapped his arms around as much of Barclay as he could grab, nestling in under his chin and sighing contentedly.

Barclay kissed his forehead and he could half feel the sides of his bottom fangs pressing against his skin.

"G'night," Joe mumbled.

"Oh, is it?"

"Mmm. Don't got a choice."

"Hmm that drowsy, huh?"

"That drowsy huh," he agreed.

He didn't know what time it was. The curtains were closed. The lights were out. He was warm. He decided he didn't care what time it was. He usually felt bad about drooling into Barclay's fur, but he decided he didn't care about that, either.

Barclay kissed the top of his head again before he could fall asleep and Joe smiled. Checkmate. They were both equally sappy. Which meant he won. Probably. Either way, it was some kind of a time, and he was all kinds of tired, and he let himself go, dozing off in Barclay's arms.

*****

Jake Coolice had not gotten quieter in the year-and-a-bit Joe had known him, and even two different layers of drug-induced drowsiness could keep him asleep when Jake slammed into the room, shoving the door too hard, as always, and letting in the light from the hall, and half-shouting that he'd brought pasta.

Joe groaned into Barclay's fur, but Barclay's arms tightened just a little bit around him, and he took it as a sign that he didn't have to sit up. Which was fine, because he didn't want to.

"Oh! Sorry, dudes. Didn't realize you were asleep. You still want dinner, or should I just microwave it back up later?"

Joe didn't need to see Barclay's face to know he was glaring at the idea. He didn't have any conspiracy-theory ideas about microwaves and radiation and all, but he also _decidedly _didn't approve. Back before Dani and Aubrey had left for Silvain, Dani had told him all about the epic drama of Mama deciding to get microwaves for the Lodge.

Jake laughed, an amused bark. "I know, I know. I would warm it up on the stove for you, how's that?"

Joe squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then pushed off from Barclay's chest, twisting around to sit beside him on the bed.

As soon as he was moving, Barclay helped, his steady hands supporting Joe even though they both knew the meds had stopped his head from spinning.

Once he was upright and settled in with Barclay's arm around his shoulders, Joe squeezed his eyes shut again, groaning and then opening them to look at Jake, who had come all the way in and shut the door behind him, because Barclay was Bigfoot in here.

"Food sounds good, actually," he said.

Jake beamed. "That's great, dude! I remember that time I had a concussion and my head was all dizzy I could barely eat without throwing up. You must be doing better."

Joe made a noncommittal noise, and Barclay laughed.

"He doesn't know how he's doing. He's mostly just been asleep."

"Mmm," he agreed, not bothering to deny it.

"Well, Leo made fettuccine alfredo, anyway, so that shouldn't be too hard on your stomach. Unless you're not good with milk? But I feel like we'd have remembered that."

"I'm fine with milk."

"Good, 'cause if you weren't, I was gonna go downstairs and ask Leo if he could just put some pasta in a bowl with, like, butter, and that's always so _boring_."

Jake came over and, after a moment, handed Joe a big bowl of pasta and a fork and set the tray in Barclay's lap where he could eat off it with one hand.

"Thanks," Joe said.

"No prob."

Barclay grunted, but they all knew it was another thank you. He was busy rearranging himself slightly to both eat and keep an arm around Joe.

Jake watched them intently, and Joe took a bite, trying to not mind the fact that he felt intensely observed. "It's good," he said.

Jake beamed again. "That's 'cause I helped! Well, no, it's probably not. But I did help!"

Barclay took a bite, too, and Jake's eyes moved over to him instead, freeing Joe from the scrutiny.

Barclay ate slowly, thinking about it and paying close attention and hamming up his new role as taster. Finally, he said, "Good job, Jake. Tell Leo he's doing good. The spinach is right. Hasn't gone to mush."

"I told him to put bacon in it," Jake said happily.

"That's good, too."

"I like the chicken," Joe supplied, trying to pretend his brain was all the way here and he was ready for this conversation.

Barclay snorted fondly and his arm tightened around his shoulder for a moment.

"Did my package come from Amazon today? Duck said he sent it one-day."

"How's a package s'posed to get here from the Amazon in a day?" Joe interrupted. "Crazy."

Barclay laughed. "Not that Amazon, babe. I can't believe Duck has better internet in the middle of nowhere Brazil than we do here."

"'S the telescope."

"Yeah, Joe, I know it's the telescope."

"Oh!" Jake said, "Yeah! I thought I was forgetting something. You want me to go get it?"

"If you don't mind," Barclay said. I'd get up and do it myself, but-" Joe felt the arm behind him move as Barclay gestured toward the two of them together.

Jake smiled, looking fond. "You guys are so gross." He didn't mean it. Joe found himself smiling at the accusation.

"Mind if I just bring it up when I come get your empty bowls and stuff?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Barclay agreed.

It occurred to Joe to ask what he'd ordered, but his mouth was full, so he didn't, and then he'd lost the thought again, too busy focusing on raising his heavy, tired arm to his mouth and lowering it back to the bowl again to make the words happen.

Jake came back after Barclay had finished, but while Joe was still powering through, trying to keep himself moving enough that Barclay wouldn't try to feed him. He wasn't _useless_, after all. Just drowsy, and dizzy when he wasn't drowsy, and drowsy when he wasn't dizzy.

Jake plopped down in Barclay's big armchair, holding the package. "Want me to open it for you? What is it? Can I see? Or is it a secret?"

Barclay laughed. "Not a secret. And sure, go ahead. It's just some DVDs."

"That reminds me!" Jake said, over the sounds of tearing tape and cardboard, "We should get a Bluray player for downstairs, now that we're having those movie nights."

Barclay didn't even have _time _to answer before Jake finished opening the box and started pulling DVD cases out of it. "_The Andy Griffith Show_," he read, before shuffling around in the box some more. "How many seasons did you _buy_?"

"Just the good ones," Barclay answered.

"Don Knotts?" Joe asked.

"Don Knotts," Barclay agreed.

"Oh, yeah, you got a movie collection with his name on it, too."

"_Mr. Limpet_?" Joe asked.

"Nah, that's not on here."

"No _Mr. Limpet_?"

Barclay chuckled. "Don't worry, that's coming, too. I put it at the top of our Netflix queue, and Moira's just going to have to deal. I'm pretty sure we're the only family left on the planet still fighting over Netflix DVD queues, but I'm also pretty sure she won't care about waiting a little longer on her latest Janette Oke movie, with you being sick and all."

"You gotta see _Mr. Limpet_, Jake. 'S a fish man. But not like _Shape of Water_."

"_The Ghost and Mr. Chicken_," Jake read, "S'that one about a _chicken_ man?"

"Nah, just a coward," Barclay answered.

"Hmm," Jake said thoughtfully, studying the back of the collection.

"What time is it?" Joe asked.

Barclay laughed. "Oh, _now _he wants to know."

"8:30," Jake answered. "Sorry I was so late bringing you guys dinner. We were kinda busy downstairs, so I was helping out."

"Busy's good," Barclay said, "And if it's not, Leo will know."

"Yeah," Jake agreed, "He's getting better at that."

"Mmm," Joe agreed.

"He says the Winnebago helps," Jake added absently, still looking over the movie collection. "How old _are _these? Only two of 'em have ratings, but it sounds like they were like, real movies in the theater and all."

Barclay sighed fondly, "That stupid heap of scrap," he grumbled. "And the 60's, more or less."

Jake nodded. "Old."

Barclay laughed. "Yeah. Old. Still pretty funny, though."

"I like Don Knotts," Joe said.

"I know, babe."

"You should watch one with us. Maybe _The Ghost and Mr. Chicken_. That seems right for-" Joe gestured vaguely toward his head. "Or you could wait for _Mr. Limpet_. You'll like it. It's got fish."

Jake shot him a reproachful look and he backpedaled.

"Not like that. I know you like Hot Pockets. I just mean it's _funny_ 'cause it's fish."

"Yup," Barclay agreed, a little teasing edge to his voice. That's basically the plot. It's funny 'cause it's fish."

"No," Joe corrected, "The plot is Nazis." He paused. "Nazis being _bad_," he clarified.

"Dudes, no offense, but that sounds _wild_. These ones seem kind of normal by comparison."

"F'I were a fish, I'd fight Nazis," Joe said. Then, all of a sudden, he heard his own words for the first time in a while. "_Fuck_, I'm tired."

Barclay laughed. "D'you mind putting in _Mr. Chicken_, Jake? He's probably gonna fall asleep in the middle, but I always like a cheesy haunted house. You can stay, if you want."

"'M not gonna fall asleep."

"I think I'll wait for that crazy _Mr. Limpet_ one to come in."

"Sounds good."

Both Jake and Barclay were ignoring him, now. Joe sat up a little straighter, forcing himself to look more alert.

Jake put the DVD in and took their bowls away.

Don Knotts was nervous, as always, and funny, as always, and Joe fell asleep in spite of his best efforts to the contrary.

*****

By the time _The Incredible Mr. Limpet _came in the mail, Joe was down to only _one _medication that made him sleepy, and had agreed to give up cuddling with Bigfoot in exchange for all watching the movie together.

He curled up in Barclay's lap in the biggest of their armchairs, just this side of too drowsy to feel embarrassed, even though Jake had invited Janice to watch it with them when she'd come with the mail. Moira seemed charmed, and Jake laughed in all the right places, and Mama watched them as much as she watched the movie, with a little more unguarded fondness than she usually allowed.

Joe managed to stay awake the whole time, in part because his meds wore off halfway through. It was a little hard to follow the motions on the screen once he was a little dizzy, but Barclay's hold on him was solid and comfortable and grounding, and he could get by well enough by listening when he needed to.

He even managed to stand up almost completely on his own and put on a good face for Janice as she headed out and they all wished her a good night. Then the door closed, and they heard her car pull out of the parking lot and he sagged into Barclay's side with a groan.

Barclay scooped him up into a bridal carry without a word, and Joe wrapped his arms instinctively around his shoulder. "You ready for bed?"

"Yeah."

Barclay kissed him, quickly and gently and chastely, and then looked around at the others.

"You guys are _gross_," Jake said fondly. Moira elbowed him, hard, and he dodged away from her, laughing.

"And here I was thinking you'd bumped the romance out of the queue," Mama joked.

"Oh, shut up." Barclay was grinning, but Joe felt a wave of something wash through him. Not anger, really, but stubbornness he couldn't quite aim right at anything with his head so muddled and confused. He pulled Barclay's head back down to kiss him again, and Barclay smiled so big into his mouth it was almost a laugh.

"Get a room!" Jake exclaimed, ruining the illusion by almost laughing, himself, and for a half-moment, Joe missed Aubrey and Dani, even though they would _definitely _have been razzing them, too. As if they had any room to talk, following each other across universes.

"Aww, go make out with Hollis," Barclay answered.

Jake squawked, offended. None of them really knew if Jake liked Hollis. Not even Jake. Joe felt a little bad about that one.

"Let'm figure it out," he chided gently. "Unless there's nothin' to figure out."

"Yeah, alright," Barlay agreed, sounding suitably chastened as he headed toward the stairs and then up them.

Back in Barclay's room, Barclay set Joe down on the bed and got him his medicine, then took his bracelet off without being asked while Joe swallowed it down. "Still pretty sure this is silly when I'm just gonna be asleep anyway."

"Yeah, well, you pull my fur when you think you're falling out of bed."

"You wouldn't let me fall."

"_I_ know that and _you_ know that, but you just try telling you that when you're half asleep and dizzy as hell."

Joe made a face and Barclay relented, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. "S'alright. I just worry about you. I can tell it's scary."

"Yeah," Joe agreed, not quite looking at him.

Barclay finished bustling around the room, turning the lights out and closing the blinds and setting the coffee pot to autobrew that fancy blend he liked, and that even Joe with his government-agency-coffee palate could tell was good.

Then he slid into the bed, wrapping his arms around Joe and kissed him once, slowly, before pulling back so that he could press their foreheads together. "I know this sucks," he whispered. "But I'm gonna get you through it."

Joe leaned his head a little harder into Barclay's. "I know. You always do."

"Yeah," Barclay said, half-whispering into the air between them. "I guess I do."

Joe indulged himself with one more soft kiss before rearranging to snuggle closer and bury his face in the soft fur under Barclay's chin.

Barclay sighed, and adjusted his arms around him, and Joe fell asleep on purpose, for once.


End file.
